In other words, research til you drop. Ten flights, three rental cars, and one traffic violation complete with state trooper saying, “Ma’m, step out of the vehicle.”

Book One: MAYFLOWER Travelling to Plymouth Massachusetts to the Plimoth Plantation

Book Two: JESSE AND THE BOOK BOAT Travelling to Syracuse New York to the Erie Canal Museum

Book Three: MIDNIGHT Travelling to Be’er Sheva, Israel.

It was “work” highly mixed with fun seeing family and friends along the way.

Exciting to see my book FACEOUT at Barnes and Noble on Fifth Ave in NYC and fun signing a book contract in person at Holiday House Publishers.

All is all 2011 was a blessed year. Travelling all over the world, catching up with family, fellow creators, and speaking at International events. Visiting the holiest of places on the planet where I made wishes, lit candles and whispered dreams. Buddhist temples in Japan, Hindu temples in India, the Jewish Wailing Wall, Christ’s Tomb and Allah’s Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem.
As an Agnostic, I covered all bases without prejudice.

Peace on Earth in 2012

Gwalia is a red dirt ghost town, nearly 1000km from Perth. The shacks have been long deserted, but one cannot help but feel like a voyeur, sneaking into peoples homes while they’re out.
A few creaking doors and the howling wind sets the scene.

More pictures on my Facebook Page.
We’re here to run workshops, in nearby Leonora, to further opportunities for local Indigenous people.

The Team:
Ron Bradfield Jr, from Artsource, Manager Regional + Indigenous Program

Margaret Whiskin, Publishing Manager, from Magabala Books , an Indigenous Publishing house

And me….

This is a piece of goanna (lizard) tail I grabbed from the fridge for morning tea!

Participants are enjoying learning the process of making books and being exposed to new art materials.
I’m learning to ‘go with the flow’ and enjoying every minute along the way.

Supposed to be painting, but it appears I’m visiting schools on a daily basis.
Five new books on the horizon so next year I’m back to my day job*.
*Unless the invitation comes from somewhere exotic, remote, or unturndownable.
I’ll miss all their eager eyes and cheeky grins, and funny comments like:
Kindergarten students:
“We have your photo in the library,” they say in unison
“That’s lovely,” I reply.
“But you don’t look anything like the picture,” they add.
“Oh, why’s that?” I ask.
“You are sooo much older in person.”

Louise’s oranges. The scent of the oranges envelopes the house and Louise has inspired me out of my blog block.

I want the fruit to last forever. Every sweet orange brings me back to her. I loved being with Louise as she meandered in the orange grove at Frog Lake with Baldrick tailing behind.

I wrote her cards from my travels, if only to imagine her walking to the mailbox to retrieve. There was a permanence of these hand written notes. Emails can be fugitive; tonight I desperately search on my computer to find any correspondence that remains from Frog Lake.

This week, the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI) WA announced that the inaugural Louise Schofield Award has been presented to WA author Meg McKinlay.

A wise old friend once said, “India will take your mind apart and put it back together again”.

This was my third venture into India. As always, it’s a humbling experience, to feel but a speck in a mass of humanity, where life and death confronts you daily.

India is not a holiday destination. It’s an adventure on survival, keeping every wit in check. Every sense is pushed and pulled to infinity and back. Even for the cynical, one cannot help but have some sort of spiritual and/or philosophical experience being surrounded by temples, mosques, shrines, pilgrims and devotees.

Mark Twain said, “India has 2,000,000 gods, and worships them all. In religion other countries are paupers; India is the only millionaire”.

Remembering my first trip 30 years ago, visiting a temple in Varanasi, being swept along with the crowd to find myself in front of a holy man offering holy water from the Ganges, well holy moly, I nearly died from dysentery.

I’m such a different traveler now, embarrassingly obsessed with bottled water and sterile hand spray. Shame in a way, after spending tons of money on unused diarrhea pills and exotic injections.

This adventure took us to Rajasthan, Hyderabad and Kerala,

In Jaipur, we looked for uncut gemstones and stayed in the devine Click here: Samode Palace and Haveli. Being summer, as in over 100ª, we were the only guests and had the Palace all to ourselves.

Wish I could share a few picture from Shane Warne’s last cricket game playing with the Rajasthan Royals. Security was insane. Little did we know, no mobile phones or cameras are allowed into the ground. What to do with all our gizmos? We tried telling security that Shane himself gave us the tickets, yea right. I asked a TV camera crew if they’d hold on to them, which they obliged. I prayed they’d find us in the crowd. Not only did they find us, they plastered close ups of our token Caucasian faces all over Indian TV during the game.

We ventured to Hyderabad, where western tourists rarely travel, researching a new book. Looking for a 16th century landmark pillar took us deep into a slum in the old Hyderabad. Some “houses” were kept immaculate, some utter hovels. Here’s the pillar and some of the children.

And finally to Jew Town (Ft. Cochin) in Kerala. I know, I know, but that’s what it’s called.

I recommend everyone go to India at least once in your life, or if you are lucky to believe in reincarnation…in one of your lives. My book “The Bird Who Was an Elephant” was inspired by this belief.

Mark Twain once again, “India is the cradle of the human race, the birthplace of human speech, the mother of history, the grandmother of legend, and the great grand mother of tradition. Our most valuable and most astrictive materials in the history of man are treasured up in India only”.

To see more photos, go to my Facebook page.

The trains empty and fill like the ebb and flow of a tide. Masses move in unison. I step into the dream whole heartedly, deeply attracted to the organized chaos. Asking directions of a random stranger on the train and I am given a beautifully wrapped box of chestnut treats. Then the restaurant, where everything is lost in translation, I’m presented with a raw carrot, onion and potato upon departure. I regift this kindness and give it to our hotel clerk.

The fashion is a feast for the eyes. The Japanese girls have a brazen style and anything goes.

In case you were wondering, Elvis is alive, well and multiplying in Tokyo.

This giant Buddha lost its head in a tsunami a few hundred years ago.
Now screwed back on tight we go inside where we rub his Buddha belly. I give him a tickle too.

Money laundering at the shrine of the white snake. We wash our money and wish for more. I spend mine on dried persimmons.Then we take a steep path high on the mountain through a plum orchard to the shrine of the fox. People leave offerings of fried tofu. Wild squirrels and raccoons have a nightly feast.

Visiting four International schools speaking to children from over forty nations.
We elect to have lunch with the kids in the cafeteria. Trying to get a bite in between signing autographs is well worth this photo opportunity.

Being the guest speaker at a Society of Children’s Writers and Illustrators, I am humbled meeting so many talented author/illustrators such as Naomi Kojima and the lovely illustrator Yoko Yoshizawa.

I could happily live in Japan with all it’s gizmos, fashion and food, but the whale issue swims in my brain. They still sell and eat whale meat. They tell me it’s delicious. I give a squid eye to all the sushi I eat in case it’s presented. I personally can’t abide by this custom.

The shark fins showcased in windows gives me nightmares of fish sinking rudderless to the bottom of the sea floor.

I didn’t have a Christmas tree when I was a kid. I was envious of all the Christian kids with their houses decorated in colourful holiday lights. We spent weeks leading up to holidays singing Christmas songs and making decorations to take home, but I wasn’t allowed to put them up. At the crack of dawn on Christmas morning I’d run over to my best friend’s house and wake her up so I could watch her open the presents Santa miraculously dropped off during the night. Then I would return home and figure out how to spend the rest of my day. Most Jewish kids got takeaway Chinese food and then went to the movies.

A couple of weeks after Christmas, all over neighbouring streets in town, lay discarded Christmas trees. Many still glittered with tinsel. One year, I dragged the shiniest tree down the road and managed to get it up the three flights of stairs of our house and into the living room. I then propped it up with stacks of books and gave it water. When my parents returned home and recovered from laughing they said I had to remove it from the house before my grandparents arrived for dinner.

I dragged it down the three flights of stairs leaving a trail of glistening tinsel and placed it at our curb. The tree stayed there another week waiting for the next rubbish collection. All our Jewish neighbours gossiped that we celebrated Christmas after all.

Hearing the children of Montserrat read their illustrated poems “The Volcano and Me” was a heart wrenching yet highlight of the Festival. The Montserrat Volcano Observatory organized the contest and I’m trying my hardest to encourage they publish the children’s work.
The winning poems will be here shortly. Need to click on MVO Illustrated Poem Competition!!

Something to make you ponder:

Montserrat will always be nice, with beautiful women and mountain chicken.
On a sadder note, heres some images of Montserrat taken at some of our old hang outs.
The past is gone, literally and physically. Quaint 18th century Plymouth is well buried. First by Hurricane Hugo in 1989 and then by the volcano rearing up it’s fiery head in 1995. My Montserrat is just sweet memories.

My little island is smokin’.
Stepping onto the tarmac, I’m happy to be home again.Montserratians are the friendliest people on the planet. Crackle birds walk with my toast. Hummingbirds hum close to my ear. New born donkeys bray ‘how you go’.
Tonight was the launch Alliouagana Festival of the Word held in George Martin‘s new Cultural Centre. George has his own seat dedicated to him, number 9, and so does Paul with seat number 1.

Meeting authors who have flown in from all over the world, all with a special connection to Montserrat and here to inspire.

With the G20 summit is about to ensconce the city of Seoul, Susanne Gervay and I head to the 38th parallel to see if we can catch a glimpse of Dear Leader and ask him his plans for the summit.
Landmines on the left, soldiers on the right, here we are, stuck in the DMZ.
After two passport checks we board a military bus where we have to leave all our personal belonging. At Checkpoint Charley we sign a release form which states that we may be harmed or killed visiting the DMZ and therefore the United Nations, the USA and the Korean Peoples Army cannot be held responsible. We are warned not to make any sudden gestures and not to point as we file into a room known as T-2 and cross over the border into North Korea.
The R.O.K soldiers all stand in a tae-kwon-do pose known as here as ROK Ready.
We’re guests of the President and Korea’s most famous illustrator, Mr Kang Woo Huon and wire zip to Nami Island, a small fairytale country in Korea. In which I now hold citizenship. And here’s my passport to prove it!
We’ve been invited to Korea because of our contribution to the Nambook-010 Peace Story. 22 authors and 22 illustrators were invited from 22 countries.
Our story “Remember East Timor” written by Susanne is on display.

We get to do our own Rock Ready pose before we farewell our Nami Island.
We don’t say goodbye, we just say we’ll see you again soon!